He wanted to tell the story again. Right this time. He’d forgotten an important bit. She was already asleep, and even if she was awake, he wasn’t sure if that was something she’d want.
To hear the same story twice.
Maybe it wouldn’t be any better.
The open bedroom window let a too-cool for summer breeze in, and he thought about rain. There was an earlier, and there might be a later, but it seemed as though there was only now. Her breath against his chest. Her hand on his stomach.
The wind picked up the smell of her shampoo.